


Imprudent follies of the Wealthy, and the Young

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, British fandom written by an actual British author, Canonical Age Difference, DW there's a slang-to-English dictionary in the notes, Escort!Eggsy, Harry just wants Eggsy to enjoy the finer things in life, Harry pays for Eggsy's companionship and the sex comes later and for free, Kept Boy Eggsy, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Pining, Prostitution, Rentboy Eggsy, Short Chapters, Slow Build, Subtle D/s subtext, Sugar Daddy Harry, Under-negotiated Kink, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, including his bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry might be having a mid-life crisis, but if he is, it's not going to come in the form of a trophy wife and a flash car. Clearly, the much more appropriate path for an ageing "tailor" is to pay an exquisite young man to accompany him to high society bashes; the sort Harry's mother would have thrilled to see him attend. It appears that fate agrees with him, as one such man has just fallen unceremoniously into his lap.</p><p>Eggsy receives unexpected help out of a sticky situation, and isn't the type not to pay back his debts. If that means donning a snappy suit, and accompanying this old geezer to posh restaurants, the theatre and an actual fairy-tale <i>ball</i>... well, he'll just have to suck it up, and allow himself to be fawned over by all the old biddies, sick with jealousy beneath their glittering jewellery. He doesn't intend to become Harry Hart's live-in plaything, but you know what they say about the best laid plans...</p><p>However, Harry is still a gentleman, albeit an unusual one, and he won't touch Eggsy until the boy has a clear and honest desire for it. Which means all kinds of tension and repressed emotion until they can both learn to be honest about what exactly they want from one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Eggsy ran for his life, legs burning from the strain. It was total bollocks; this wasn’t even his deal. Whatever went down, Eggsy wasn’t a part of it. He had just been dossing around, minding his own, waiting for Jamal to stop fannying around with his new bird. A couple of pigs came round the corner and shouted over at him. They were obviously looking for someone fitting his general description, but he knew that even before they confirmed they’d gotten the wrong guy, they’d search him.

Eggsy didn’t sling Dean’s gear often, only when he was harassed about ‘contributing to the household’, getting chivvied for not finding a job. As though Eggsy hadn’t tried. Half the food in the fridge was put there by him; he did cash in hand when he could, pickpocketed and pawned when he couldn’t. Dealing was his second to last resort.

It wasn’t the lowest of the low, though. Eggsy wasn’t above turning tricks when there was no other way. He’d only gone so far three times, and each time he’d only had a to give out a few blowjobs, and be good with his hands. He wasn’t about to go any further neither. Each of those times had been when the bailiffs had come knocking, and Dean didn’t have a big enough network to keep it rolling when he and his lads had been banged up for petty crimes, or sleeping off a D&D.

But it had been years since Eggsy had even thought about going there. Now that Dean had finished ‘expanding’ into the entire estate, it wouldn’t matter if he was sitting pretty in a cell somewhere, the cash would keep flowing. Didn’t mean Eggsy saw much of it though, and he needed clothes and deodorant as much as the next bloke. So he ran full tilt through the unfamiliar borough - damn Jamal and his middle class bird. Because Eggsy had no fucking clue where he was, he was probably going to get arrested for theft or arson or summink, and get found with enough speed on him for possession with intent. Fourteen fucking years porridge.

So Eggsy ran like his life depended on it, because it bloody well did. He rounded a corner and found a back alley, hoping for a twisting network of staff entrances, dustbins and smoking steps that would eventually lead him to some busy high street, where he could blend in and maybe duck into a shop. But no such luck; he ran about halfway down before he turned down a sharp corner, which led straight to a dead end. No bother for him, since Eggsy had been obsessed with gymnastics as a nipper, and still practised on his own, though the money for proper lessons had dried up long ago.

He’d get off Scott free if he could get up and over in time. If the fuzz saw him launch himself over the wall, they’d know for sure he came down here. But this wasn’t the only alleyway Eggsy could have gone down, and he’d have a much better chance of a clean break if he could get over before they came round the corner and saw him. Unfortunately, he was running full pelt toward the wall when one of the back entrances to a shop or restaurant opened, and he had to skid to an ungraceful stop, in order to avoid getting clobbered in the face.

His scuffed trainers grated horribly against the cobbles as he stumbled. Eggsy wobbled unsteadily, and righted himself with some mild flailing. He was about to take off again, when he inadvertently caught the eye of the man stood at the door, cardboard boxes in his hands. Eggsy could feel the fear frozen on his face, standing this close to a witness. The pigs would question this guy, and he would pick Eggsy out of a line up, any day of the week.

Something about the terror Eggsy could feel, widening his eyes and lightening his skin, must have appealed to the man’s pity. Because he made a split second decision to shuffle a half step to the left, widening the angle of the door to allow Eggsy to squeeze past into the dark hallway beyond. Eggsy didn’t have time to second guess his decision; he darted into the mysterious, shadowy hall, swallowing loudly as the door slammed shut behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **bollocks:** a swear word, used when something that is both unpleasant and unbelievable, similar to ‘bullshit’  
>  **dossing around:** hanging around doing nothing important  
>  **fannying around:** wasting time, messing about  
>  **bird:** woman  
>  **pigs:** rude term for the police  
>  **sling:** sell drugs  
>  **chivvied:** hurried, harassed  
>  **cash in hand:** illegally working ‘off the books’ without paying tax  
>  **D &D:** drunk and disorderly (in the UK it is a crime to cause trouble when drunk, in a public place - this can literally mean singing too loudly or knocking over a table, and then swearing about it)  
>  **speed:** amphetamines, a Class B drug in the UK  
>  **possession with intent (to supply):** a crime that carries heavier penalties than being found with drugs for personal use, because the amount is clearly enough that you intend to sell to other people  
>  **porridge:** time in prison (there used to be a TV show about characters in a men’s prison, called Porridge)  
>  **nipper:** young child, older than a toddler but younger than a teen  
>  **Scott free:** without incurring negative consequences  
>  **the fuzz:** the police  
>  **clobbered:** hit


	2. Chapter 2

Eggsy panted in the sallow darkness, catching his breath while his eyes adjusted to the altered quality of light. When he could see further than his own hand, he focused his attention on the face of his unlikely saviour. He was a middle aged bloke his shirtsleeves, with a kind of tartan waistcoat over the top. Eggsy had never seen anyone look so effortlessly done up; even guys at weddings 'round where he lived didn’t dress so sharp. The idle thought of what this bloke would look like dressed up flitted across his mind. Did he wear a monocle and a brightly coloured handkerchief in his pocket, like the gentlemen in old films? Eggsy had spent a good portion of his early life watching old musicals and things on the fuzzy, grainy free tv channels, before Freeview was a thing. The man who was currently hiding him from the pigs reminded him of Gene Kelly. It was the old fashioned hair.

He wondered what kind of place he’d been let into. Some kind of posh restaurant maybe? The bloke could be a waiter, or maybe the owner. Nah, on second thoughts, it was quiet inside and there were no big steam vents outside, wafting out the smell of scran. And Eggsy couldn’t smell anything cooking inside either. Probably a posh boutique then, full of huge handbags and men’s ties.

Eggsy and the posh bloke regarded each other in the dark, silently sizing each other up. Eggsy was pretty sure he could take the older guy, but it was a tightly enclosed space, which always made fighting difficult. He doubted it would come to that though, unless the guy was some freak who’d lured him inside to chop Eggsy into little bits and feed him to his prize-winning Corgi. Eggsy watched the news sometimes; he knew there were nutters out there.

“Good afternoon,” said the man, and Eggsy had been right about his status as a toff.

The stranger had a rich, deep voice, and he spoke every letter with careful consideration. Eggsy would be confident in a flutter on the fact that Mr Good Samaritan wouldn’t drop his Gs or contract his words if he didn’t have to. But his tone held warmth, revealing a cheery disposition that was obvious, even without the small smile that accompanied his words.

It was a stark contrast to the cold, regal and sourly superior tones that usually accompanied an accent such as this man’s. (Or at least when speaking to someone like Eggsy.) He considered it only polite to respond in an equally pleasant manner. He might be from South of the river, but Eggsy’s mum hadn’t raised a tosser.

“Alrigh’,” Eggsy replied, conscious of the fact the man need only open the door and holler, and the filth would come running. “Ta very much, for letting me in.”

Under the circumstances, Eggsy was at a disadvantage, hiding in this bloke’s turf. So he aimed for polite and disaffected, hoping he got the tone right. He intended to convey that he had the balls to defend himself if he needed to, but he wasn’t about to start shit unnecessarily.

“You are most welcome, my boy.” The older man replied, quietly amused at Eggsy’s attempt to be courteous.

The man finally set aside the cardboard boxes he had been fruitlessly holding all this time, placing them on the floor by his feet. There wasn’t much room for his cargo; the corridor they were jammed into was only a few foot wide. Eggsy glanced down to the other end of the enclosed space, to see one door leading off it was standing open. Unfortunately, it was on the same side of the wall that he was leaning on, so the angle was all wrong to have a butchers inside. It would be rude to be caught gawping, so Eggsy quickly returned his gaze back to his new mate.

“Do you mind if I ask who you are hiding from? Would you like to use our telephone to ring someone - the police perhaps?” The gentlemen enquired, and his concern for Eggsy's welfare seemed entirely honest. It was a refreshing change to how people usually addressed him.

But once the actual words registered, Eggsy felt his heart sink, down to somewhere below his stomach. No wonder the bloke was being so nice and calm; he probably thought Eggsy was trying to avoid a beating from a gang, or something.

It was clear the stranger was no fool, because he took one look at Eggsy’s guilty-as-fuck expression and said;

“Ah. No point hiding from someone if you then go and call them, I gather?”

Eggsy swallowed thickly, wanting to lie but knowing there was no point. Just how much Barney had he managed to land himself in now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **bloke:** man  
>  **scran:** food  
>  **take:** beat up  
>  **nutters:** insane people  
>  **toff:** the rich upper classes  
>  **flutter:** bet, wager  
>  **tosser:** literally someone who masturbates, but more often used for someone useless and incapable, general swear word for someone you dislike, kind of like ‘asshole’  
>  **the filth:** rude term for the police  
>  **turf:** land, as in earth, soil etc  
>  **have a butchers:** cockney rhyming slang (butcher’s hook: look)  
>  **gawping:** staring rudely with your mouth hanging open  
>  **Barney:** cockney rhyming slang (Barney Rubble: trouble)


	3. Chapter 3

The man shifted in place, before apparently coming to a conclusion.

“Well, since letting you leave at this precise moment would no doubt lead to world of trouble, how about a nice cup of tea, instead?” He said, with all the charm of a benign grandpa.

Eggsy remained still, stunned into silence.

“There is not much which cannot be at least ameliorated with a good cup of tea, in my experience.” the bloke continued, as though there was a chance in hell of Eggsy saying _no_.

What was he going to do, say ‘nah, thanks bruv, I’ll take my chances with the Old Bill?’ and skip out on his merry tod? Not bloody likely. Eggsy merely nodded, still hesitant in the face of unexpected kindness, but eventually found his voice to say;

“Pukka, mate. Cheers.”

The man squeezed past him, to lead the way down to the open door.

“My name is Harry, by the way. Harry Hart.” he called back over his shoulder, no doubt to see if Eggsy was following.

Or perhaps he was checking Eggsy wasn’t pulling a flick knife on him when his back was turned. Eggsy carefully kept his hands out of his pockets, deciding to avoid aggro as much as was possible.

“Eggsy,” he replied shortly, still wrong-footed from this unexpected save. What were the chances of this particular back entrance opening just when Eggsy needed it? He sincerely doubted that the occupants of the other shops along this street would have been so decisive, or so kind.

“What an interesting moniker.” Harry Hart noted of Eggsy's name, with a mild interest, but not scorn.

Eggsy had endured far worse comments about his nickname. You’d think Dean would have gotten over it, having guys in his own crew with names like ‘Mop’, ‘Link’, and ‘Mouldy’ but apparently ‘Eggsy’ was a step too far. Never mind that he’d been called that his entire life.

Gary was a shitty name anyway. It was such a plumber, builder, white van man, no-prospects name. You couldn’t be an Olympic gymnast with a name like _Gary_. Eggsy gave up on those dreams a long time ago, but that didn’t change the fact that the name you saddled your kid with, said a lot about what you expected them to get out of life. There was no way his sister was ever going to be taken seriously as a business woman or a top-dog lawyer with her ridiculous name, for example.

At least a nickname you could pick and choose yourself, and drop if it no longer suited you. Who had a time to fuck around with deed polls? Besides, Eggsy had a passport that was still valid for another five years, and there was no way he was forking out another 70 beer tokens for a new one. What the hell would he re-name himself as, anyway? _Lee_ , his treacherous mind answered. But Eggsy couldn’t do that to his mum. Bad enough that he already looked the spitting image of his dad, he wasn’t about to take his name as well. So 'Eggsy' it was, and anyone who took issue could swivel.

Caught up in his own head, Eggsy barely realised he was walking down the corridor, but he certainly noticed that the open door led to a small kitchen. It was inevitably larger, cleaner and far more modern than the shitty excuse for one he had in his own home. It was evidently the staff back-room, but Eggsy reckoned those were Magnet cabinets and sideboards, elegantly slotted together.

There was a table with a small cluster of chairs, and two squashy relaxing armchairs in one corner as well. Eggsy took a seat at the table, still unsure what Twilight Zone he had fallen into. Gentlemen did not take a good gander at Eggsy’s ratty hoodie and jeans, and invite him in for tea.

Harry Hart seemed to be the exception to the rule though, as he filled up the kettle, and took out two clean mugs from the cupboard. He prepared their drinks in silence, only punctuated by the inevitable question: “Sugar?”, to which Eggsy replied; “Nah, thanks.”

Truly inspired conversation.

Eggsy gritted his teeth against the awkwardness, and when his drink was set down in front of him, took a large gulp to steady his nerves. If Mr Hart was right about one thing, it was that a good cuppa made everything better.

Mr Hart took the seat across from him, delicately sipping at his own cup, before fixing Eggsy with a penetrating stare.

"So, Mr Eggsy. May I ask why you are being pursued?" he began, "My guess would be a spot of grand theft auto, in the name of joyriding perhaps? I cannot envision you involved in a brawl, and you seem rather unsullied if that were indeed the case."

"Didn't actually do owt this time." Eggsy insisted.

He fidgeted under Mr Hart's intense gaze. The man had Superman-style laser eyes, and they saw right through him.

"Wrong place, wrong time." Eggsy pressed, unsure exactly why he desired Mr Hart's belief in him. Maybe because he was the first toff to ever speak to Eggsy like his answers meant something, that he wasn't just scrum to be scraped off their shoe.

Mr Hart smiled and it made him look about five years younger. "Well, perhaps it was fate that led you to my door, then. You are exactly what I have been looking for, Mr Eggsy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Old Bill:** the police (there’s a TV soap about police officers in London called The Bill that’s been on air for like 25 years)  
>  **on your tod:** alone  
>  **pukka:** good, great  
>  **cheers:** thank you  
>  **flick knife:** knife with an automatic function to slide the blade out of the handle (illegal to carry out in public, even in your pocket or bag)  
>  **aggro:** literally 'aggression', meaning problem or issue that leads to an argument/fight  
>  **white van man:** stereotypical working class men who drive transit vans for work, someone rude, selfish, and aggressive  
>  **forking out:** paying  
>  **beer tokens:** pounds  
>  **spitting image:** bastardisation of ‘the spirit and image’, ie you act and look exactly like someone else, usually a relative  
>  **swivel:** ‘go fuck yourself’ on something, as in sit on it and swivel around  
>  **Magnet:** kitchen chain-store, a brand, pretty expensive and fancy  
>  **gander:** look  
>  **cuppa:** cup of tea  
>  **joyriding** : crime of stealing a car and taking it for a drive with no particular goal in mind other than to go fast and have fun. joyriding is not the considered stealing, so kids often get a two for one deal on charges with both GTA and joyriding  
>  **owt:** anything
> 
>  **fun fact:** the nicknames of Dean’s friends are the real nicknames of my grandparent’s friends. Now that I’m thinking about it, I have no idea what their actual names are. In case you haven’t realised, English people are ridiculous.


	4. Chapter 4

Eggsy eyed himself up in his mirror, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in his stomach. He was wearing plain black trousers and a stiff shirt with an actual collar and cuffs. He looked like a right ponce; a kid playing dress-up. He uncomfortably rearranged the neckline for the hundredth time. It was too much like bloody school uniform; it’s amazing what you forget. He’d certainly forgotten how tight a collar was. Thankfully, he could leave it unbuttoned because he didn’t own a tie to wear.

The clothes had been a gift from Mr Hart; taken from the uniform selection they had, for their apprentices. It turned out Eggsy had stumbled across a tailor’s, a legit Saville Row bespoke suit shop, where Tories went to buy tweed to wear to the country club.

He’d combined his outfit with his one smart pair of plain black shoes, that the jobcentre had paid for last time he’d had an interview. Eggsy had kept them at the back of his wardrobe; under a holdall, still in the box they came in. They were Clarks, matte black with thin laces. Affordable in the sale and hidden at all times from Dean, in case he tried to flog them.

Eggsy could have gotten a pretty penny for the shoes himself, and he might have once, back when Dean was just another dealer on the estate. Nowadays his mum and sister didn’t need extra cash from him. So whatever Eggsy made, he mostly got to keep, and that included the shoes. He was glad of it now. Too bad he didn’t have a smart coat. All he had was a navy blue bomber jacket, the tiniest bit too short in the sleeves, and an olive green parka. His winter coats, usually relegated to their hangers once summer arrived and hoodies reigned supreme.

He eventually settled on the bomber jacket, because at least it was plain; the parka had a fluffy hood that wasn’t detachable. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing this, but he’d agreed to go out with Mr Hart tonight, and Eggsy wasn’t the sort of bloke who didn’t pay back favours. Mr Hart had done him a solid, and there was no way he was gonna chicken out of paying him back, no matter how out of place he was going to be.

His initial reaction to Mr Hart’s suggestion of dinner at the theatre had been less than favourable. First he’d thought the old man was trying to fuck with him, make him turn up somewhere posh and make a tit of himself, and then Eggsy just figured he wanted a piece of arse but was too polite to come right out and say it. He’d tried to follow suit, and insinuate that he wasn’t for sale. But Mr Hart was obviously well versed in understanding subtle hints, and he was pretty emphatic about the night entailing food and a play only.

They’d sat in calm companionship whilst Mr ‘call me Harry’ Hart outlined his proposal. Apparently he had a spare ticket to dinner-and-a-show at the theatre the following evening. He’d meant to go with an old friend, but they had to pull out at the last minute for work. Harry was intending to go alone, but would much prefer to have someone ‘young and interesting’ to share the experience with. He said he was planning on retiring soon, and had more time to enjoy the finer things in life, but not enough people to share them with.

As a ‘confirmed bachelor’ - which Eggsy assumed meant _gay_ \- Mr Hart said he’d never really taken to the whole ‘being someone’s boyfriend’ gig. Therefore he had no clue how to pick anyone up the normal way, and take them on proper dates. Apparently he hadn’t been looking for anything for so long, the whole chatting up process had moved too far away from anything he recognised.

“I am not looking for a serious romantic entanglement, you understand. But I am getting on in years, and when most in my circle are marrying off their children and eagerly awaiting grand-offspring, I am getting to be rather the odd fish out. Tables always come in even numbers, and us singletons get lumped together at functions. If I never have to sit across from Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe’s whiskered liver spot again, it will be too soon.” Mr Hart had said with a sniff.

Eggsy couldn’t help sniggering at that. It reminded him of whenever he whined about having to kiss his grandmother on her wrinkly, whiskery old face. Still, only a toff would think bringing a boy young enough to be his son along as a date, even a friend-date, would be preferable to putting up with stuffy old couples. Honestly. Rich people problems.

“You would be doing me a favour, you understand. It will set chins wagging, to be sure. Perhaps that will be to both our benefit. I might be seen as an actual prospect for a future date by someone, instead of an animated piece of furniture. You can be sure there will be plenty of younger people there to strike up a conversation with, make some new friends, and I might even get a reputation. Wouldn’t that be _scandalous_?”

Mr Hart’s eyes had twinkled with mischief, and Eggsy couldn’t help but laugh again.

People were always inventing drama to make their lives more interesting ‘round his estate. It was funny to think rich people were doing the same thing, only with more money to throw around. Mr Hart was a pretty funny guy in general, without seeming to work at it. It made a nice change from the kind of lads Eggsy regularly hung ‘round with, who were always trying hard to impress one another. Mr Hart made it seem effortless.

Mr Hart had also stated passionately that he’d always had ‘more money than sense’. So he’d gone into a careful business, the type that would still be around until the cows came home, and had managed to accumulate quite a tidy nest egg. He said he’d probably die of boredom a year after retiring, so he might as well enjoy his dosh while he was still up and kicking. Eggsy couldn’t disagree with that, and it had been years since he last saw a play. In fact, he didn’t think he’d set foot in a theatre since going to say Shakespeare in secondary school.

Now here he was, preparing to go watch something on a fancy stage, probably in an expensive seat, after posh nosh. On a date with a man, no less. His English teacher would probably have a heart attack if Eggsy ever bumped into him again and told him. He had always been trying to broaden Eggsy’s ‘cultural horizons’. Well, look at him now. He was about to go and behave like a proper little gentleman, and he even looked the part. Well, sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ponce:** idiot, fool  
>  **Tories:** supporters/members of the Conservative party  
>  **jobcentre:** where the unemployed go, to look for work/training/apprenticeships, who allocate benefits for jobseekers and pay for things like interview clothes or transport to a course  
>  **Clarks:** expensive shoe shop, primarily caters for business people and the elderly  
>  **a solid:** a favour that turned out well  
>  **a tit:** a fool  
>  **chatting up:** romancing, convincing someone to go on a date/home with you  
>  **chin wag:** talking excessively  
>  **until the cows come home:** forever and ever  
>  **tidy:** good, well-made  
>  **nest egg:** a high amount of savings  
>  **dosh:** money  
>  **nosh:** food


	5. Chapter 5

Eggsy hurried down the stairs, exiting the tower block as fast as his two trotters could carry him; lest he be stopped by someone he knew. Mum was half-cut on the sofa already, Dean was fuck knew where, and his sister was fast asleep in her crib, too little to understand where Eggsy went when he wasn’t home playing with her. There was no one around to ask if he was going out-out tonight, and if so, just where the hell he’d gotten the money to do so.

Everyone knew the job market was a desert out here. All the work had dried up in the recession. Eggsy was fucked, despite his GCSE grades. Odd-jobs and cash in hand work still hadn’t come back since the election, no matter what bullshit statistics the Tories spewed. Boris Johnson could kiss Eggsy’s pasty white arse, and that was a fact.

No sooner had he made it to ground-floor level, he stiffened at the sight of a bacon patrol car, terrified for a moment that all his efforts had been in vain. Maybe one of the coppers from yesterday had recognised him after all. Eggsy ducked into the shadows of the overpass above, but another look confirmed it was only a jam sandwich. He breathed a sigh of relief and decided to get a move on. If he kept messing about, he was going to be late, and he didn’t want Mr Hart to be waiting on his tod, worried that Eggsy had stood him up.

He ducked down a flight of stairs to the tube station, having scoped out his route beforehand. The ride was quick and lonely; it was past rush hour. Eggsy found himself at his stop far quicker than he would have liked, and having no more excuse to drag his feet, headed straight for his destination.

The theatre was a large, imposing structure, one of the old-fashioned Georgian buildings that inner London was so famous for. There were large posters hanging outside, announcing the upcoming productions. Some of them Eggsy recognised, like Phantom of the Opera and Billy Elliot. Others, he had no clue about. They had intriguing names like ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ and ‘Swan Lake’.

He didn’t what show they would be going to see tonight, as Mr Hart hadn’t gotten around to actually telling him. He wondered if that had been deliberate on the other man’s part. Maybe he thought Eggsy wouldn’t come, if it was something that sounded dodgy. It was a fair assumption, since he didn’t know Eggsy from Adam, and therefore didn’t know how fucking stubborn he could be.

They did ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ in school, and Eggsy remembered how he’d identified with the mangy old Mrs Dubose, who wanted to die beholden to nothing and no one. Eggsy had lived his life like that. He didn’t smoke, though he did weed now and again, but if he ever thought he was addicted, to junk or drink, he knows he’d stop. He never wanted to be reliant on anything to deal with life.

Watching his mother crash and burn through her failed relationships after his dad’s death, Eggsy had sworn he would never do the same. He saw how people let her down, again and again, and he had learnt that the only person you could rely on was yourself. If you didn’t pay back your debts, you could be sure other people wouldn’t pay back their own to you. Eggsy owed Mr Hart for the epic save from fourteen years banged up. If Mr Hart wanted to be saved from the embarrassment of going out alone, then that was the least Eggsy could do. Even if he had to sit though a kid’s pantomime, or a cheesy musical.

They had agreed to meet in the foyer, and thankfully, it wasn’t an overly large theatre with a huge queue outside. Eggsy walked straight in through the front doors, and was relieved to see that although some of the scant people inside were dressed up, most of them were just wearing smart-casual clothes, like him. The few people there were, were from a range of ages, though it looked like no one was under the age of fourteen. That was good, because kids made noise, and Eggsy wasn’t cut out to deal with that right now. His nerves were still shot, and all he wanted was a pint and some grub.

Mr Hart waved at him from where he was sat on a Chesterfield, and Eggsy made his way over. He tried not to let the fact he was bricking it show on his face. Mr Hart didn’t seem worried, because he rose to meet him and smiled when they shook hands. He was elegant, for a bloke, and he had a good strong grip. Somehow, Eggsy had expected a him to turn into a limp-wristed fop during their absence, which of course made no sense. Mr Hart was just as reserved and refined as he had been the day they met. Yesterday.

“Good evening, Eggsy.” said Mr Hart, who had been persuaded to drop the ‘mister’ prefix before Eggsy’s name last time they spoke. “The restaurant is on the first floor, shall we?”

He indicated the stairs with his long black umbrella, the staple of all gentlemen who worked in the City. Eggsy nodded, returning the greeting, and allowing himself to be led with a soft hand barely brushing the small of his back.

As they walked, Eggsy noticed the posters announcing the current show, something called ‘The Car Man’. From the photos, it looked like the show was set in 50s America, and involved a lot of dancing. One of the reviews mentioned ‘modern ballet’. In genuine surprise, Eggsy regarded Mr Hart’s profile as they walked in tandem.

“We going to the ballet?” He hissed, and felt the butterflies in his stomach growing razor-tipped wings to slash up his insides.

What did Eggsy know about ballet? He’d seen bits of the Nutcracker on the telly at Christmas, of course. But so had everyone. Everyone know tickets for the ballet cost a bomb, and Eggsy suddenly felt horridly exposed, like a catburglar caught in a museum. What the fuck was he doing here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trotters:** feet  
>  **half-cut:** halfway to being drunk  
>  **going out-out:** going clubbing, as opposed to going to the pub/a restaurant, which is simply ‘going out’  
>  **since the election:** the 2010 general election, winner of which was the coalition government of the Conservatives (Tories) and the Liberal Democrats (Lib Dems)  
>  **Boris Johnson:** Mayor of London and Member of Parliament for the Conservative Party  
>  **bacon patrol:** police working on the beat  
>  **jam sandwich:** vehicle driven by traffic wardens  
>  **dodgy:** something unsuitable, unfit for purpose  
>  **mangy:** scabby, shabby, gross  
>  **junk:** drugs  
>  **nerves were shot:** in a state of mental exhaustion, unable to handle any other surprises, in danger of having a breakdown (Eggsy is exaggerating here obviously)  
>  **grub:** food  
>  **Chesterfield:** specific type of sofa, expensive and lovely, found in posh places  
>  **bricking it:** worried (literally means on the verge of soiling yourself out of fear)  
>  **fop:** excessively prissy man concerned only with their appearance  
>  **the City:** literally London, but more often used to describe the financial and bespoke fashion district where all the rich people shop


	6. Chapter 6

“Technically, tonight’s performance is an opera, re-purposed into a ballet. Bizet’s 'Carmen' to be specific. Matthew Bourne, the director, has a reputation for revamping traditional works into modern productions, and being very good at it too. Have you seen any of his work?” Mr Hart explained cheerfully, as though his words weren’t completely horrifying.

Eggsy shook his head dumbly, barely managing to follow the thread of the conversation. Ballet was bad enough, but _opera?_ Opera might just be the most poshest thing he knew of, and Eggsy knew he had no business anywhere near one. Thank god it was only a ballet after all. At least he could tell Mum all about it; she’d always been proud of his gymnastics, and maybe there would be moves that were similar. Eggsy suddenly reckoned he could handle this night much better.

“They gonna be singin’ in Italian or summat?” he asked, as they ascended onto the mezzanine restaurant floor.

Mr Hart smiled down at him, clearly pleased that the conversation was flowing so naturally between them. Eggsy was pretty chuffed himself, in fact. He thought it was going to be awkward as hell, trying to talk to such an old, Tory bloke.

“Not during this version, no,” Mr Hart replied. “There is no speech at all, in fact. The story is told purely through movement and interpretation.”

That appealed to Eggsy. On the one hand, wouldn’t have to sit through any shrill singing, but on the other, the story might be all weird and vague, and he might just be sitting in confusion for two hours. But there was no time to think about that in depth; they had reached the maitre'd, and Mr Hart told her about their reservation. She offered them use of the cloakroom, which both Eggsy and Mr Hart took her up on. Eggsy was glad to get out of his coat, and Mr Hart, impeccably dressed as always, deposited his umbrella.

The restaurant itself wasn’t as overly grand as Eggsy had anticipated. The carpets were a thick deep red throughout, and three glistening chandeliers lit the room, aided by an assortment of white candles on every available surface. Their cosy table was in an intimate little corner, decorated with a classy red rose. Eggsy had to fight the urge not to blush at the sight of it. Despite Mr Hart’s insistence yesterday, it was obvious the staff here thought they were on a date. He expected all the other diners did too. When Mr Hart politely pulled out his chair, so that Eggsy could sit first, he found that it didn’t bother him as much as he thought he would.

Eggsy was only gay for pay, but he didn’t have a problem with gay people and never had done. No one had ever assumed he was gay before though. Whereas someone like Dean might have used homophobic words to try and wind him up, Eggsy actually had no problem with people believing what they liked about him, if it was nothing harmful. He was comfortable with himself, and at the end of the day that was really all that mattered. So far, Mr Hart had been good company; so Eggsy wasn’t about to let what other people might be thinking ruin their chance for a decent natter.

They cracked open their menus together, and Eggsy was immediately stumped. Whenever he ate out with Mum, she always let him know how much he could spend, if she was paying. Somehow, he doubted Mr Hart would do the same. The second issue arose when he actually looked at the names of the meals available. They were in French for crying out loud, though they did have explanations of what they included underneath.

Eggsy was focused on the main meals; but Mr Hart was obviously the type to down a three-course meal, no problem.

“Would you like to share a starter platter? Or would you prefer something separate?” He asked, lowering his menu to look Eggsy in the eye.

“Um,” said Eggsy, “Sure. Which one?”

“How do you feel about seafood? I know it’s not a popular choice with everyone, but I must confess it is my favourite type of food.”

Eggsy grinned. “Same, mate. Seafood platter then?”

“Indeed.” Mr Hart set down his menu. “Do you know which main you would like?”

Eggsy looked down at the menu again, just as a perky waitress arrived. Mr Hart ordered a glass of Muscat, and asked Eggsy if he wanted the same. Eggsy had no clue, since he’d never heard of it. Mr Hart could obviously tell without asking, because he said;

“It’s a lovely white wine that goes well with seafood.”

“Alrigh’ then. I’ll have that too please.” The waitress nodded and went off to get their drinks, but Eggsy was already zeroed in on the menu again, trying to decide between tuna steak and carbonara.

“I recommend the sea bass. A truly delicious variety of fish.” Mr Hart smiled at him, pushing his square-framed glasses further up his nose.

Curiously, Eggsy found himself trusting Mr Hart’s judgement. He wasn’t trying to shove his views onto Eggsy, just asking straightforward questions and making simple suggestions based on his answers. It made a nice change to the way Dean was always pushing Eggsy and his Mum around, trying to get them to agree with everything he said.

Their wine arrived, and Mr Hart did that taste-and-sniff test Eggsy had seen people do on the telly. After confirming its taste, the waitress poured them both a glass and took their orders. Eggsy eyed up the golden liquid in his glass before giving it a tentative little sip. It was like drinking liquid gold; fruity, rich for a white wine, effortlessly decadent. Eggsy grinned broadly, and finally began to allow himself to relax and luxuriate in the treats coming his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chuffed:** pleased  
>  **gay for pay:** heterosexual sex workers who are paid to act as or perform homosexual acts  
>  **wind him up:** anger him purposefully  
>  **natter:** discussion, conversation  
>  **stumped:** baffled, brought to a standstill  
>  **for crying outloud:** used like 'for goodness sake' to express and emphasise annoyance  
>  **Muscat:** the nicest type of flat French wine IMHO, worth the expense


	7. Chapter 7

They passed the next few minutes with easy talk. Mr Hart asked Eggsy what he’d been doing with his day, and Eggsy described taking his sister to the park, and the way she went mental over ducks. Eggsy had to force himself to call Mr Hart ‘Harry’, and it made his speech a little stilted, with obvious fumbles and stutters. Thank god Mr Hart was too much of a gentleman to say anything.

Before long their starter arrived; seafood in the natural dishes of their shells, tastefully presented on wooden boards. Eggsy eyed up the scallops, prawns and crab meat with interest. Mr Hart went straight for a slice of lemon, squeezing it over a row of three ugly-looking blobs in their shells.

“Oysters are perhaps my favourite thing in this world,” Mr Hart grinned wolfishly, revelling in Eggsy’s obvious disgust. He picked up a shell and drank down the nasty food inside in a single swallow.

“Eurgh. That is rank, Harry.” Eggsy exclaimed, but not too loudly. He was still conscious of the fact they were in public, and he had no intention of making a scene in such a nice place.

Mr Hart laughed, a deep, delighted rumble that made something unnameable in Eggsy’s stomach twist and clench. He looked away, fumbling across the table for his wine glass to take another yummy sip. Anything to distract him from noticing how good it felt, to be able to elicit joy in another person: a stranger no less, just by being himself.

“I assure you, the look of the item does not necessitate the quality of its taste.” Mr Hart replied, smug and mischievous all at once. “Go on, give it a try.”

Eggsy gave the slimy seafood another dubious look. But Mr Hart spoke again, before he could decline the offer.

“I promise I will not press you to try more than one. If you do not like it, you need never have another,” Mr Hart said beatifically, blue eyes twinkling above his hipster glasses. “But at least you can say you were brave enough to have tried it. If anyone ever asks, you can safely say you do not enjoy oysters, and would prefer an alternate dish.”

It was pretty bloody unlikely that any shindig Eggsy went to would include oysters, but Mr Hart made a fair point about trying anything once, even if it was not quite the argument he had intended to put forward. Eggsy loved rising to a challenge and exceeding everyone’s expectations; including his own. And just how awful could they really be, if posh people were gulping them down like they were Irn Bru? ‘Course, they could all just be pretending to like them; because they thought they were the only one of their lot who hated the taste. That seemed like something toffs would do. 

He gingerly reached across the table to pick up a shell. The oyster looked a little like raw egg, wobbling a similar way in its little homegrown plate. But Eggsy did his best to ignore that. His mate Ryan was a bit of a fitness fanatic, currently trying to build up his muscle mass, and he downed three raw eggs every morning. How hard could it be? 

“Just the one?” Eggsy confirmed, meeting his date’s eyes. Mr Hart nodded, avidly watching Eggsy’s progress with the shell.

The fact that he would probably never get another chance to try an oyster, was the deciding factor in Eggsy’s mind. At least it was something he could tell the lads about when he told them about taking posh totty on a date. They would get a good laugh out of it, and it would be something Eggsy could remember the odd Mr Hart by, in a few months time when the older man had forgotten all about him.

Steeling himself for the gross experience he was no doubt undertaking, Eggsy copied Mr Hart’s movements to a T. He placed the edge of the shell against his bottom lip, opened his mouth, and let the whole thing slip in as he tipped back his head. The food that slid into his mouth was surprisingly solid for something that looked so jelly-like. It’s texture was somewhere half-between jelly and a fried egg, and the taste that assaulted his tongue was a subtle fish flavour, mingled with the citrus zing of the lemon juice; salty and shockingly delicious. He chewed it in two bites and swallowed.

Mr Hart was still watching him as he set the empty shell back down on the little wooden board. The older man arched one inquisitive eyebrow, in response to Eggsy’s dumbfounded look.

“That was actually alrigh’,”said Eggsy, still in shock. “Bloody hell.”

“Would you like another?” Mr Hart asked, indicating the final remaining morsel.

“You sure?” Eggsy suddenly felt bad. Here he was, the pleb at the table, hoovering up all of Mr Hart’s favourite foods without even knowing the proper way to eat them.

“But of course,” replied Mr Hart, “Part of the pleasure of dining with another, is watching them enjoy the food. A true gentlemen delights in helping another to gain satisfaction.”

Eggsy felt his cheeks heat in blush at the double entendre, whether it was intentional or not. Something about the dark, smouldering look in Mr Hart’s eyes made him think the other man knew exactly what he was doing. Eggsy hurriedly dropped his strong gaze, proud that his hand didn’t fumble or shake when he plucked up the final oyster. 

As he savoured the taste, he reminded himself he was here to have fun. Whereas Mr Hart could afford to eat oysters every day, this was probably Eggsy’s only chance to try them, and he might as well enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **rank:** foul, disgusting  
>  **shindig:** party  
>  **Irn Bru:** pronounced 'Iron Brew', popular Scottish fizzy soft drink  
>  **posh totty:** a good looking person whose poshness is an essential part of what makes them attractive ie their voice, manners, education  
>  **to a T:** precisely, exactly, with great attention to detail  
>  **pleb:** a lower class, vulgar person  
>  **hoovering:** vaccuuming up
> 
>  **fun fact:** Oysters are bloody delicious, okay, and if you get the chance you should definitely try them


	8. Chapter 8

They polished off the remainder of the platter without issue. Eggsy recognised the rest of the food, even though he’d only tried some of it. Crab meat was as sound as he remembered. Dean was one of those people who hated all kinds of seafood, apart from fish and chips, so naturally they never had it in the house. But Eggsy could remember going to the market with his dad and having crab sandwiches. It was a good memory, and he allowed himself to bask in the happiness of days gone by for a minute or two.

The conversation between him and Mr Hart continued to flow naturally, the silences between them comfortable. Eggsy couldn’t remember the last time he’d hung out with anyone, outside of his bezzies, and had such a good time without getting trashed first.

The only hitch came when Mr Hart asked; “Do you have any solid plans for the future, Eggsy?”

Eggsy winced. Mr Hart had never sound more like his grandma, the whiskery one Eggsy didn’t like kissing on the cheek. Fortunately, the way Mr Hart said it, it didn’t come across like an accusation; just a polite interest. The poor geezer had no idea what kind of minefield he’d just stumbled into, and Eggsy wasn’t going to be some defensive wanker. Mr Hart had been nothing but chill, and he deserved more respect than that.

“Not really, no.” Eggsy settled on as a reply. “I was in training for the Marines, but my Mum freaked out, so I had to quit. Me Dad died in the war, see. She don’t want me going the same way.”

It was rare that Eggsy was so honest and upfront about the whole palaver. To his mates, maybe, but Mr Hart was an unknown element. Who knew what he would think? Eggsy didn’t want some bloke he barely knew, judging his mum.

But, true to form, Mr Hart was a gentleman about it all. “I am very sorry for your loss. It was only natural that your mother had concerns. It does seem a shame, though, that you will miss out on all the opportunities afforded in the military. You seem like the sort who would flourish under pressure.”

Eggsy blushed, unaccustomed to receiving praise, especially spoken such an elegant manner.

“Do you partake in any hobbies, which could naturally lead into a career?” Mr Hart continued.

Coming from him, the question seemed like a valid conversation starter; as opposed to Mr Hart just being a nosy parker.

“I used to do gymnastics, when I was little,” said Eggsy, but this time he didn’t offer a reason why he had to quit. He wasn’t gonna turn his life into some sob story, when there were millions out there who had it way worse.

Mr Hart made a polite noise of interest, and Eggsy took another gulp of his fancy swill, to avoid saying anything else. He was immediately distracted by the flavour. God, it really did taste like liquid sunshine.

They were interrupted by the arrival of their meals. Eggsy had gone with Mr Hart’s suggestion of the sea bass. The older man had chosen smoked salmon and asparagus fettuccine, which turned out to be the fish in a white sauce with a type of pasta.

“To a thoroughly pleasant evening,” said Mr Hart, raising his wine glass.

That was a toast he could get behind. Eggsy carefully clicked their glasses together with a satisfying ‘chink’.

“Cheers.”

They got stuck in with their meals. Eggsy was eager to try out the unfamiliar dish in front of him. It was a pan-fried fillet of fish, on a bed of green beans, sun-dried tomatoes and char-grilled peppers, smartly drizzled in a red sauce. He was careful to follow Mr Hart’s lead; cutting himself a smaller slice than he usually would, to press onto his fork. He couldn’t suppress his groan at the superb taste, though. No wonder rich folk were so obsessed with food, if this was the kinda grub they had all the time.

Conversation was sacrificed in favour of focusing on the food. Eggsy just about had the presence of mind not to wolf his food down like a pig, but it was a close thing. He couldn’t remember ever having a meal so good, not even when Mum pulled out all the stops at Christmas. He felt guilty just thinking it, but it was true.

“You were righ’, Harry. This is bloomin’ lovely.” Eggsy said, indicating his meal.

Mr Hart seemed very pleased; “I am glad to hear it, my dear boy.”

Eggsy didn’t even blush at the endearment, too chuffed to be bothered by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **sound:** something that is good, or 'all is well'  
>  **hung out:** spending time relaxing with friends  
>  **bezzies:** best friends  
>  **trashed:** one of about a million words that mean 'drunk'  
>  **geezer:** an old man  
>  **wanker:** literally 'someone who masturbates' but more often used for someone disagreeable you don't like  
>  **chill:** calm, serene  
>  **palaver:** fuss, bother, a prolonged issue  
>  **nosy parker:** someone who routinely pries into other people's affairs, a busybody  
>  **swill:** wine OR any drink that is cheap and nasty  
>  **wolf it down:** eat quickly without regard for manners or neatness  
>  **pig:** used here to mean the farm animal, famous for its appetite, and not the police
> 
>  **fun fact:** I love food, okay, and I'm not the slightest bit sorry. Expect more vivid descriptions to come, lol.


End file.
